Prodigal
by NightSpear
Summary: He isn't normal, of course, but he's wrong about why. One day, he'll know it, too.


Title: Prodigal

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this. 

Pairings: Gen. 

Notes: Wow. Erm. I don't really know where this came from--it's not my usual thing at all.� I was going to write a bittersweet look at growing up, and somehow it...mutated. A lot. 

XXXXXXXXXX

There is something really funny about the way he's always wanting to be normal. 

He isn't, of course, but he's wrong about why. The ones watching him know, and one day, he'll know it, too.

He thinks it's abnormal to live in the same apartment for a whole year and then attend five different schools in the next eight months. It's abnormal to be the top student of his class and have his father berate him for spending too much time in the library, while his older brother congratulates him with a six pack of cheap beer even though they're both underage. It's abnormal that he's gotten so good with computers because of all the practice hacking into government databases, and that the teachers praise his skills and ask him to help when the computer freezes. It's abnormal to have a flap inside his military-styled backpack, sewn in to keep his knife out of sight while in school. It's abnormal to be kicked out of the family car—because that's the only stable home he knows, the car—because he's accepted to one of the top colleges in the nation.

In the end, those are the things that makes him who he is, but they don't explain _what_ he is.

So he starts to think the oddness in his life comes from that night in Lawrence, when a woman with golden hair and dressed in white baptized him with her blood before she died in flames on the ceiling. He starts to believe it when another woman with golden hair and wearing another dress watches him from another ceiling before dying in another sea of flames. And then he knows it when he starts seeing another woman, with black hair this time, but still on the ceiling, still bleeding, still in flames.

That's not it, either, but he's getting closer.

So he wonders why he doesn't recognize the difference between a shapeshifter and his brother—there must be something wrong with him if he can be fooled by a creature using the face of a man he resents and understands and hates and loves more than anyone else in the world. He wonders why he pulled the trigger when his brother was lying helpless at his feet in the asylum—there must be something wrong with him if there's so much anger buried away that he tries four times to shoot. He wonders why he can't stop a demon from using his body like a helpless puppet, if his father was able to hold off a possession, even for just a little bit—there must be something wrong with him, because he remembers the hate and the rage and the burning for revenge, and they're so familiar, even if they weren't completely his at the time.

More subtle, this time, but he's closer still.

He's finally almost there when he learns just whose blood flows through his veins. He calls it a taint, but part of him knows it's a gift, and it's only a matter of time before the rest of him acknowledges it, too. One day, he will realize what he is wasting by denying it. But not now; now, it is nothing to him but an infection in his soul and a stain on his name. As much as he rails against John Winchester, he will protest to the end that he is not Azazel's child.

And he is right, because Azazel was a powerful pawn, but a pawn nonetheless. He is right, and there will be others awaiting him when he arrives at last.

XXXXXXXXXX

"My brother's soul," he says when he meets her for the first time. He's cut it close—there's only a day left. There's something to be said, however, for having tracked her down to begin with. She hides herself deep, or else everyone else would be able to find her. There's a reason she sends her lackeys to act as salespeople, after all.

"And why should I give it to you?" It's not just empty taunting—it's an interest in how he will answer.

"Because it wasn't yours to take," he says, "and I want it back."

No smile, because a smile would give away the game too early. "Break the deal," he demands, his eyes gleaming and his voice steely. "Or I'll send you to the Pit and I swear to God you'll never crawl out of there again." It's an odd turn of phrase for someone who's never really believed in God, even if he didn't know it until a few years ago. "I'm not afraid to do it. You die, and the deal's off."

He's confident, and he's right.

"You're starting to understand, now," she tells him. "I've wondered how long it would take."

She waits, knowing he's not yet at the point at which he doesn't care at all anymore. Whatever has happened to him, he's still curious about everything he doesn't know. He's still the man who, as a teenager, was willing to leave everything he knew behind to pursue learning and a normal life. 

That never stops being funny.

Finally, he narrows his eyes and says, reluctantly, "How long _what_ would take?" and then everyone is laughing even if he can't hear it, laughing and laughing because it's the beginning of the end now, and soon he'll be beginning again, the way he should have begun all along.

He won't send his own soul to Hell, not now, with a war about to start topside. He's not like his brother that way, or his father—he's not as self-destructive, but he's more _destructive_. He'll stay behind and fight if his family dies, but he'll demolish everything and everyone in his path to get them back, and he won't even care. Part of him knows it and exercises stifling control over everything he does. The rest of him knows it, too, and unleashes a furious rush of messy temper and emotion each time the control breaks.

The control has begun breaking already, and has been for months. Sometimes he can feel something trickle out, and he buries it even deeper, thinking that it's the taint in him. Or that the death of that innocent little boy was unfortunate but necessary collateral damage, and he was on the other side of the room, so it couldn't possibly be his fault. Or that the woman whose heart he stopped with a touch could have been dangerous, and it was justifiable self-defense. Soon, he will stop rationalizing, everything will burst forth, and he will learn what a gift it is.

"You can take it," she tells him. "You don't even need my help. If you'd just stop denying who you are..." 

"What are you talking about?"

"You know it's never been just visions. And if you'd just admit it, you'd know they didn't just go away with Azazel. It's in your blood, little Winchester." She spreads her dainty arms, challenge evident in her unholy eyes. "You want your brother's soul so badly? Go on, use those powers—they're itching to be free. You can kill me. Take it."

He's not stupid, and it's clear that he is no longer going to pretend he doesn't know it's true. Because demons lie, but only when they can't make the truth hurt more. He believes that giving into the psychic abilities he's fought against for years now will make him more like the demon he doesn't want to be. He'd do it, though, for his brother, if there's no other way. 

But he thinks there is another way, a much easier way, a better way that will save his brother and save himself, too, and that's what breaks him.

She falls to the ground, dead, with a mythical bullet from the famous Colt lodged in her dead host's brain. He's relieved that his brother's free, and he's glad the bitch is dead, and it's amazing he can't hear them laughing at him, it's gotten so loud. He still doesn't understand that killing with a gun isn't any different from killing with his mind. He hasn't realized that he could have channeled that gift of a taint in his veins to obliterate the bargaining demon, while the gun has killed an innocent girl along with it.

He will, though. It will hit him, even before he reaches his brother. And when it happens again, and then again, he will begin to hear the laughter as fear and wrath untie the bonds of his control, loosing the strength he has hidden away for so long. 

And when he begins to forget why he ever bothered denying it to begin with, then the laughter will turn to cheers, and he will turn with blackened eyes to face the hordes who have gathered to welcome him home.


End file.
